


may winds and terrors

by beachkid (binz), binz



Category: Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-06-22
Updated: 2008-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything comes from somewhere, but all that we have left are pieces. <i>"in my dripping (pain)/ the blamer may winds and terrors/ carry him off"</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly tv!verse, with a smattering of occasionally tweaked book elements. WIP. The title and section poems, including their bracketed numbers, come from Anne Carson's [If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho](http://www.amazon.com/If-Not-Winter-Fragments-Sappho/dp/0375724516/ref=pd_bbs_2/002-0293015-6091274?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1182561644&sr=8-2). Her translations are phenomenal, as is everything she does, and I can't recommend her more.

**1 [4] **

          ]heart  
          ]absolutely  
          ]I can  
          ]  
]would be for me  
]to shine in answer  
          ]face  
          ]  
          ]having been stained  
          ]

"harry," bob says. "harry, you must get up. _harry_."

the floor beneath him is cool, startlingly, shockingly cool, through his pant legs and jacket, and he shivers, arms shaking where they are braced against the tile. he can feel the world spinning madly beneath him, and struggles to stay still.

"_harry_," bob says. "harry. get up now."

harry jolts, a shock of pain in his head focusing his eyes as much as bob's voice, sharp and short, and harry is moving before he realises it, legs pushing against the ground, and scrabbling. bob is staring at him, eyes wide and his facsimile of flesh paler than usual, and it is his look – broken and tired and fearful – that reminds harry that his right fist is clenched tight, his father's old ring pressing a circle into the flesh of his thumb, and –

he drops the doll, hand suddenly numb, and sways, grabbing at the wall to pull himself upright. the ring clatters and rolls away.

"harry," bob says again. "harry. they will be coming. you must be ready."

"what?" harry tries to say, but coughs instead, lungs suddenly too small for his chest, and he brings his hand to his mouth automatically, wetness smeared on his face a moment later from the cut on the back. he rubs at his cheek, and the blood streaks against his palm.

"harry, you used black magic," bob says. "you broke the first law. they will come for you, and they will kill you."

black magic. harry's head swims, finding the words and clinging to them. black magic. thaumaturgy. his fingers remember chalk, dusty and dry, and his eyes flutter closed, finding their own black and grateful for it, for the escape, and the place to the hide.

"harry!" bob says, and moves forward, insubstantial and vicious. "harry, you must not fall asleep. harry!"

harry's eyes open again, slowly, and he blinks, trying to bring bob into focus. his head aches, and he can't quite seem to think. his hand raises again, reaching out, and he can almost see the trails of old, old magic clinging to bob, wrapping around his essence and stretching back to where the skull must be.

"bob?" he says, and it's hard, shocking so. he swallows.

"yes, harry," bob says, and sounds relieved. "now, harry. you need to listen to me. you are very susceptible right now. you've a head injury – are concussed, no doubt – and you have opened yourself to a powerful and corrupting influence. i need you to listen, harry; you must do as i say."

"you knew?" harry says, and bob stops, falling silent. his form wavers.

harry's hand begins to shake, and he drops it, pushing off against the wall. he steps over justin's body, crumpled and horrid, and stumbles. his heart stutters, and he is out the door a moment later, disappearing into the black and cold of the night

   
   


**2 [12]**

]  
]  
]  
]thought  
]barefoot  
]  
]  
]  
]  


madeleine morningway squints against the reflection of the sun off the water, and angles the wide brim of her hat to cast a shadow over her eyes. the surf against the shore is rough, the waves foaming and white-capped, and the breeze gusting off it brings salt and wetness to her skin.

she turns her head and follows the line of the coast away from the sun, choppy blue sea blending into hazy blue sky, and the front of their summer estate is just visible on the horizon, glinting white on the high bank above the beach. the wind rustles her papers, and she presses down on the flapping corner, the fresh ink smearing under her fingers. by the water, her children shout as the wind gusts again.

"justin," she calls, "not so far."

at the waterline, her son turns, wet up past his knees and forehead pinching in the moment before his sister swoops in, grabbing his hand and grinning down and whispering. she darts off, loose hair long and dark and wild about her face, and he follows with toddling steps, the unevenness of the sand limiting his four-year-old movements.

"watch him, maggie," madeleine calls after them, and maggie looks over her shoulder, nodding, chin set and serious and, even at eight, she looks so much like madeleine's mother, save for the dark morningway eyes, that madeleine's heart jumps a little inside her chest.

they disappear behind the nearby cluster of large seaweed and water-pocked boulders, and the lefay family pentagram suddenly feels cool and heavy where it lies between madeleine's breasts. she busies herself with the ruined top page of her letter, and the ink staining her fingertips.

she purses her lips and breathes out through her nose; she will have to start again. pulling out a fresh piece of paper from her bag, she lays it flat and turns her shoulders, blocking the now-faint breeze. _june 7, 1912_ she writes in the top corner, and scans over what she had written before.

a shadow falls over the page as something blocks her light, and she looks up at her approaching husband. jacob tilts his head, and she stares back at him, confident to meet his eyes; they'd soulgazed long before. he has his son's colouring, and justin's short limbs and perpetually-tense mouth mark him as his father's son. madeleine can't help but wonder what jacob thinks of when he sees the lighter lefay eyes staring back at him from his son's face.

she raises her papers and blows softly on the ink, watching the wet gleam waver and fade as she stands. "children," she calls, and the murmured giggles and rapid conversation drifting out from the tidal pool behind the rocks quiets. "come along; it's time to go. margaret, don't let your brother forget his shoes."

   
   


**3 [15A]**

          ]blessed  
          ]   
          ]  
          ]  
to loose all the wrongs he did before  
          ]  
          ]by luck of the harbor  
          ]

dandelions have taken over the side of the road, bright yellow and faintly bitter-smelling, and they do as much as the dry fields and the high, pale sky to catch the end of summer and put it in a jar. colm leans back against the car, shifting to keep his skin from the hot metal, and smiles down at his son.

harry has forgotten about the purpose of their stop, and waves his small arms at the sky and the scattered clouds and the swirl of soft, fluttering white butterflies rising up from the overgrown grasses and wildflowers. his pants are undone, and are dangerously close to dropping down around his small, still baby-fat chubby, knees.

"c'mere, kiddo," colm says, and swoops harry up into his arms as he takes a few off-balance steps. colm ruffles harry's hair and kisses the top of his head, turning him to balance against his thighs, looking out at the field, as he braces against the car. "what did you forget, here, bud?"

harry turns his head and blinks up at him, large, dark eyes so like his mother's, and his mouth dropping open a moment later. his hands scrabble to his fly. colm grins against his hair, and waits while harry gets himself done up before setting him back down.

harry's cheeks are pink, and he smiles sheepishly, shoulders hunching around his ears. colm winks down at him. "you ready to go, kiddo? or do you want to stay here? we can have an early supper, and still get to denver before it gets too dark."

harry beams, and that's enough for colm. he grins, and opens the back door, pulling out an old, beat up cooler. "all right, kiddo. chicken salad, or peanut butter?"

"daaad," harry says, four years old and fully exasperated, and scrambles up to sit on the car floor and rummage through the cooler himself, emerging with a peanut butter and jam sandwich clutched triumphantly in his fist. he pulls at the wax paper and says, "you can have the chicken ones."

"well, thanks, harry. that's awfully considerate of you."

harry just smiles around a mouthful of bread, and leans back, resting against the seat. his mother's silver pendant catches the afternoon sun, glinting from its customary spot against his shirt, and colm rubs his small shoulder gently. harry hasn't taken it off once this past year.

   
   


**4 [18]**

Pan  
to tell[  
tongue[  
          to tell tales[

and for a man  
greater

her coffee has grown cold, and its bitterness clings to her teeth and fingernails, making them brittle and sharp. she frowns and swallows the last mouthful anyway, dark and gritty and overly sweet where the sugar has settled, and pushes back from her desk.

she shoots her open files one more look, the cursor on her computer screen blinking accusingly, and flips the cover closed on the pictures of a splayed and bloody young woman. samantha brennan – blond, brown-eyed, waitress, and art student – hadn't been much older than connie had been when she'd graduated from the academy, but murphy can't remember ever being that young.

the department's communal sink is beside a window, and connie turns on the water, pushing the stacked mugs in the basin out of the way, and rinses out her own. most of these patrol cops were worse than anna when it came to dishes, and she had to remind her daughter almost every meal to put her dishes in the dishwasher. the last thing she's going to do is clean the uniforms' mugs for them.

she dumps the dirty water from her own mug, fills the sink with dish soap and hot water, sighing, and leaves the pile of mugs to soak. the midnight shift will be coming on soon; they can take it from there.

the window is cracked half-open, and the wind coming in is damp and thick with the promise of rain. the coffee maker beside it hisses, empty, and murphy sighs again, setting her mug on the counter and going through the motions to start a new pot.

her report runs through her mind, and she ticks off the details to the sputter and drip of the brewing coffee. they're scant, and uncertain, and she feels her lips pinch, trying to imagine how to tell the young woman's parents that, while she wasn't sure what had killed their daughter, she could assure them that it was gone, vanished in a shriek of wind and a flash of light, and leaving behind only the battered, gasping form of a police consultant and self-proclaimed wizard.

connie shakes her head, hair bouncing around her ears, and turns backs to the sink, pushing up her sleeves before sticking her arms into the dishwater. the heat is nice against the draft from the window, and she tries not think of samantha brennan's body and soft blond hair, or harry, scratched and hobbling through his door with a wave, or anna, squeezing her goodbye the day before and now at rick's for the week.

outside, the lights of the city shine and glimmer: hundreds of thousands of cars rushing by, and the 'l' rattling along, and millions of people quietly breathing, unawares.

   
   


**5 [24A]**

]  
]you will remember  
]for we in our youth  
          did these things

yes many and beautiful things  
]  
]  
          ]  


he has been in this hole for twenty two days, as long as his count of the times that the sun has risen is accurate, and has not yet managed to free himself from his bindings. he scraps his wrists against the wall, teeth gritting at the slick mud and a hissing breath escaping as the rock he had unearthed glances off the sigil-laden fabric and slices into his flesh instead, already torn and bleeding and no doubt festering.

he does his best to control his breathing, nose and mouth angled away from the increasingly putrid puddle that makes up the ground, and shifts his neck as far as the bindings will allow, his beard and hair clotted through with mud.

closing his eyes, he tries to picture the words he wants to use, stomach churning and limbs swiftly losing sensation as he struggles with his will, and it is not until he tastes warm blood that he realises he has bitten through his lip. he loses the spell, will and words and focus slipping away into blinding pain and light behind his eyelids, and breathes out, muscles shaking, and he blinks open his eyes.

something has broken, hrothbert concludes, trying to see past the haze of someone else's magic burning beneath his skin. something has broken. he cannot build the focus he needs to free himself from the magic and mobility-limiting bindings, and cannot, cannot _bear_ \-- he loses the thought.

above him, at the edge of his prison, a grey-cloaked warden stands over the rim of the pit to relieve himself. hrothbert ignores the splash and heat against his legs, crooked at the knee and pressed up into his chest with the limits of the prison, only wondering how far indeed he has fallen if a wizard will be so careless with his own body and essences around him.

something has broken, hrothbert remembers. hrothbert remembers. something has broken. he rubs his bindings against the rock, feeling the skin give and split around the unaffected fabric, and, perversely, it is his heart that aches, deep inside, and not his wrists. something has broken.

   
   


**6 [24C]**

]  
]we live  
]  
the opposite  
]  
daring  
]  
]  
]  


dawn is hiding just behind the horizon when colm pulls away from the gas station, turning the I-10 into shades of blue and grey, and the sky into something near and far and full of the promise of birds. beside him, maggie's seat creaks as she shifts it upright, rolling her shoulders against stiffness and sleep. she peers at him and out the window, and reaches for the second, still-steaming cup of coffee in the shared cup-holder. her teeth squeak against the styrofoam and she smiles around the edge, pushing her hair back from her face.

"'morning," colm says, eyeing the fuel gauge as it creeps back toward 'full', and sips from his own cup. the coffee is hot and sweet and greasy, and the burn on his tongue is perfect. he holds it and lets the heat settle into his skin.

maggie presses her cup to her lips, and peers at the road ahead. there's a map lying on the floor between their seats, scribbled over with yellow highlighter and folded into something like a giant paper crane. "where are we?"

the sun breaks the land behind them, and colm squints as the world takes on colour. "about an hour and a half out of baton rouge."

maggie fishes sunglasses out from somewhere under her seat, and drains the last of her coffee. she reaches over, running long fingers along his jaw and up into his hair, resting them just behind his ear. her wrist smells like jasmine, and the copper plates on her bracelet jangle against each other. "need me to take over?"

"mmm, no." he tips his head back, sliding his coffee into the cup-holder and catching her hand, twining their fingers together and letting their hands fall to her lap. "i'm good for now. do you need me to pull over? let you stretch?"

"no, no," she says, shaking her head and squeezing his fingers gently. her hair catches the light, flashes and strands glinting penny-bright amongst the black, and falls forward. "let's keep going."

   
   


**7 [24D]**

]  
]  
]  
]  
]  
]in a thin voice  
]  


the room is half made up of what he remembers, and half brand new. draped sheets and sunlight-caught dust blur recollection with the stillness of the place, and harry can almost taste the weight of it, tangled somewhere in the clear water undertones and bitterness that have curled and pooled on his tongue. his chest expands and aches and his throat closes tighter and tighter and he can't seem to breathe. the hand he uses to push back his hair shakes, and the other will have half-moon nail marks bitten into the palm, once he can unclench without leaving pieces of himself scattered across the floor.

the furniture is pushed away, haphazard and angled with dustsheets draped half-on and half-off, and together the couches and chairs and tables form a circle, enclosing the large, open room, with himself in the centre. the part of his mind that has been shaped and trained and saturated in magical theory and application quietly catalogues the properties of circles, and he can feel each downbeat aligned with his pulse and still-pounding heart and the tension in his jaw where it's clenched tight.

the room is both familiar, the dimensions of space and the slants of light tripping memories hidden in the corners of his eyes, and startlingly, achingly, alien. he has searched every inch of it, underneath and inside and in-between everything he can think of, with Sight, and without, and by touch, and he's found nothing. no remains of the spell justin's doppelganger had used to restore bob, save a dark, vitriolic green smear bending space and crinkling the corners of time to his Sight, and no trace at all of the arrow.

in his fingertips, harry can still feel bob's voice, short and contained, as he clipped through an explanation of the arrow, and the cold-wind emptiness that hung in the valleys of 'lost love' and the tightness around his mouth. harry runs through bob's assurances that it had been destroyed, used up, barely an arrow at all, just physical space and shape given to the vestiges of a millennium of magical construction, and hardly worth searching for.

still. harry does his best to draw a breath. still. and exhales, shuddering.

a sudden breach rends a moment of heat and force, and the furniture cracks and falls apart, clattering to the tiled floor. he lets the front door slam shut behind him, directed with a gust of wind, and feels the old, strong wards snap back into place as he abandons the splinters and shards to lie wherever they may have fallen.


	2. Chapter 2

**8 [26]**

 

                    ]frequently  
                    ]for those  
I treat well are the ones who most of all  
          ]harm me  
                    ]crazy  
                    ]  
                    ]  
                    ]  
                    ]you, I want  
                    ]to suffer  
          ]in myself I am  
aware of this  
]  
]  
]  


the bartender grins as he passes the bottles over, his arm extending above a cluster of heads, and connie has to jump a little, bouncing up on her toes, to grab them. she tucks them in with the rest, under her arm and pressed to her chest, and clutches one in her hand. by the time she makes it back to their tables, shoved together with a hodgepodge of chairs tipped at dangerous angles and pushed in wherever they might fit, her skin is slippery and wet from condensation, and she dumps the load gratefully, wiping her hand down the side of laurent's face.

"murphy!" amanda shrieks, mouth opening wide as she gasps and laughs, then bends to rub her cheek against murphy's front. connie drops back into the chair beside her and snorts, shoving amanda off.

"that's not going to work, mandy." connie pulls at her shirt, smeared with a row of neat, upright watermarks and sticking to her skin. "the bottles already got me. and, by the way –" she raises her voice and addresses the tables, one finger circling the bright-eyed, flushed faces as they grin back. "this is my party, and i'm not getting another round. it's up to one of _you_, now." she lines the top of her beer up against the corner of the table and smacks down, grinning at the _pop_ of the cap flying off and the hiss of air rushing in. "and that's an order," she adds, clinking bottles with amanda while the tables hoot and holler 'yes, ma'am' back at her.

"heyhey, over here. congratulations, murph; first detective in the class!" phil shoves his bottle forward, earning a punch on the arm from amanda as he reaches across her, and clunks it against connie's. beer sloshes over her hand and she drops her jaw in a scowl before reaching over and snagging a handful of his fries.

"excuse me, french fry thief – " phil begins, before a fry is waved in his face.

" – that's _detective_ french fry thief, officer saunders," murphy says, but phil's grinning at the space behind her, and she turns, looking up a neat row of buttons and blue stripes and into an unknown face.

"rick!" phil says, and stands up to pull the man down, grabbing an empty chair just in time. "hey, man. how are you? 'manda, murph: this is an old friend of mine – hometown old, even – richard boughton."

rick smiles, and connie smiles back before she thinks about it, reaching out a hand to shake his. he has the greenest eyes she's ever seen. "connie," she says. "it's nice to meet you."

   
   


**9 [29A]**

]  
]  
deep sound  
]

the windows in the morningway library run with rain, the view of the enclosed grounds blurring into a smear of grey sky and clear water. on the inside, they are cool and slightly damp, and harry, leaning his arms, chest, and entire weight against the wide sill, presses his cheek to one, breathing out to watch the glass fog up around him, and yawns a moment later.

he reaches up and presses one fingertip against the patch of condensation, sweater sleeve outlining the bones of his wrist and clutched against his palm, held tight in his curled grip. blinking slowly, rolling his neck to press his forehead to the glass and leaving his cheek red and stinging slightly from the cold, he pulls his finger down, drawing a long, straight line through the center of the mist.

"oh, yes, well done," says bob, and harry grins against the glass, not turning around while the air fails to stir as the ghost comes up behind him. harry's neck prickles, and his bones hum, deep and familiar, as his body and magic try to react to bob's essence and the there, not there, inside-out sense of space rippling around the breach between the mortal realm and the fragments of the NeverNever. "i'm sure the cleaning staff will appreciate that. goodness knows, if you try hard enough, they might come to love you as much as the groundskeeper."

harry's smile stretches wider, and he turns around, eyes and grin fixed on bob as he reaches behind himself and hoists his body up to sit on the windowsill. the dark wood is as wide as the single shelves lined against the library walls, and it holds harry easily as he shifts, aligning himself sideways to stretch lengthwise against the glass, knees bent and feet pressing against the far side of the frame. his eyes, darker still in the shadows from the flickering candles spread throughout the library and the dim grey glow seeping in sleepily from the outside, catch some small glimmer of light and reflect it back towards bob.

"mrs. heyland likes me," he says, picturing the smooth cheeks, wide hips, and perfectly white, perfectly coiled hair of the seldom-seen housekeeper. "she bakes me cookies." bob raises an eyebrow, and harry fights an errant blush, yawning widely despite himself, and running the same long finger he'd used to mark the window under his sweater collar, brushing absently back and forth along his breast bone. "and george only hates me because he hates everyone who isn't a plant. i think he actually counts each blade of grass. really." he opens his eyes wide and nods quickly, and breaks into another smile as bob snorts, soft and sharp, against a raised hand, quirking lips visible under the arch of pale fingers pressed to his mouth.

"be that as it may," he says, and fine white eyebrows draw up and meet in the middle while a glance is sent backwards to an askew chair and desk, candles flickering and a large, open book left abandoned in the centre. "as much promise as your attempts to irrevocably aggravate all members of the staff – cookie bakers aside – shows, i do believe you still have a number of chapters to read before you can even start the essay i've assigned for next week."

harry ducks his chin and slips down from the windowsill, shooting half a glance back at the almost entirely faded patch of condensation, and grabs bob's skull from its resting place on the closest bookshelf. he yawns once, and rolls the old, warded bone against his ribs as he wraps an arm around it, palm cupping the jaw and fingers absently running along the length of the cheekbones. he places bob down gently on the desk, and turns his chair, straddling long, coltish legs along either side of the back, and leans forward.

harry scoops up the skull again, cradling it between slim hands, and peers up from behind the front pieces of his hair, dark and humidity curled and entirely unmanageable. "deal?" he proposes to the ghost. bob's lips are half-twisted and his eyes soft and dark in the flickering light. "you tell me who the carver clan were, first, all about them -- and i'll have the rest of the book, and the other one, finished by the time uncle justin gets back tomorrow."

"harry," says bob, and harry's name gets caught on the rain outside and the curling smoke from the candles, stretching and ephemeral between bob's lips, "you can hardly hope to delay your assignment by having me tell you everything you need to know before hand."

"bob," harry says, drawing out the name in pleased exasperation. "that's not what i meant, at all. i just learn better when you say it. when i can hear it first, i mean. then read it. besides, i know you don't agree with everything in there," he reaches out a finger and pokes the old binding. "you do the shuffling thing whenever you look at it."

"i do the -- very well, harry dresden." bob moves forward, following the flickering of the light and the shadows of the rain. "but you are getting entirely too old for bedtime stories."

harry grins, and tucks his hair behind an ear. "i'll never be too old," he promises, and adds, "besides, i'm not in bed." he rocks bob's skull carefully in his palm and shifts, easing his weight forward. beneath his feet, he can feel the world spinning on and on.

   
   


**10 [29B]**

]

]  
lady  
]  
]

the holes in the clouds reveal snatches of the sky, a deeper, brighter blue than any she has ever seen, even in the realms of the NeverNever where beauty is as abundant as air and falls like rain, and maggie tips her head, letting the wind blow her hair back, and breathes it in.

the world smells like water and dust and the sun, burning gold and setting fire to the line and curve of the land and the mountains rising to meet the sky. her skin is sticky with sweat and the dust of the road, and she shakes her arms, letting the tension find her fingertips and bleed out, before reaching up and behind her and piling her hair at the back of her head, pulling an elastic off her wrist to hold it in place.

it takes her a moment to realise that it has started to rain, clear, heavy drops erupting against the dust and gravel when they land, and the sun still shining. _sunshower, _ she thinks. _the foxes are getting married; the wolf is giving birth._ under her skin, she can feel a shiver in the make up of the world around her, and looks down and away, lips curving even as she chides herself for her thoughts. the last thing she wants to do is attract the attention of a nearby trickster.

a shout and a squeal from behind her has her spinning, left arm arching up and will infusing her shield bracelet without thought; the collection of rings on her right hand buzzing and held waiting. a moment later, both hands fall to her side, and her lips are tight, pinched together as the rain beads along her hairline and hair, front pieces fallen loose from their tie, and runs down her face.

at one of the picnic tables near the back of the roadside rest stop, a mother grabs her children's hands, separating the brother from his sister, while the father gathers up the remains of their meal, shaking off the pooling water. maggie can see the mother's lips moving, could hear the chiding and lecturing against fighting if she chose to Listen, and turns away.

she opens her car door, sitting down in the driver's seat, but faces the road, resting her feet on the dusty ground, and cups her hands before her. the small, circular scars on the insides of her wrists stand out against her late-summer tan, and in her pocket she can feel the sharp edges and teeth of the keys, some made from metals, some from stone, others from wood, and a few from bone. her mother's old key box is packed away in her luggage, sitting in the trunk, but the weight of them is comfortable, and has become familiar over the years. the rain in her hands collects slowly, and maggie closes her eyes until it runs over.

"i choose this," she says, letting the handful fall and pulling her legs into the car. she finds the clutch, and turns the ignition. "i choose this, i choose this."

   
   


**11 [34]**

stars around the beautiful moon  
hide back their luminous form  
whenever all full she shines  
          on the earth

 

          silvery

the night is a surprise, sliding in through the open door to brush chill and crisp against their cheeks and steal their breath away. murphy gasps, face flushed, bright and glowing, and laughs, fingers flying to her jacket's open zipper. "oh, god," she says, words pluming white and soft about her face. "brr!"

a few steps behind her, the heavy bar door closing with a _thunk_, harry claps his gloved hands together, the sound muffled but clear in the empty street. he stomps his feet and the sound echoes, bouncing off the long, staggered rows of old brick buildings and the pavement, before disappearing into the wide, open sky.

"it got cold!" murphy laughs, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck, burrowing her chin into the soft, thinly woven, autumn fabric. her fingers, made slightly clumsy from the shock of the cold and an extended evening of flickering espn and warm-coloured beer, tuck the ends into her jacket collar then seek refuge in her pockets. "what happened? don't answer that," she adds, one hand sneaking out of the warmth of her pocket to point a finger towards harry.

"what? me?" harry raises his hands. "what did i do?"

"don't give me that, harry dresden. i know you, and you are a smartass. you've probably already got some comment waiting, and i don't want to hear it." murphy rises up on her tiptoes, pressing one cold finger against harry's lips. "shh."

"yes, ma'am," harry says, and murphy nods, tapping his chin once with her finger as she plops back down off her toes.

"you're too damn tall."

"sorry. i'll work on that. normally, i'm just average – a little on the short side, really – but whenever you come along – ow." harry rubs his arm where murphy punched him, and she smiles sweetly.

"pardon? what was that?"

harry just takes an extra-long step forward, pulling ahead of murph in time to gesture gallantly to the passenger seat of his jeep. he offers her a hand, and she scowls at it before stepping on his foot. harry's still smiling when he gets in the driver's side a moment later, turning the ignition while murphy smacks the dash.

"you need to invest in a car with a heater, dresden. and actual doors. so they can be shut."

"the jeep has a heater."

"one that works."

"picky, picky."

murphy sticks her head out the window, staring up at the sky. "almost december, already," she says. "i swear, it just became november. it's going to snow, soon."

"not tonight," harry says, slowing to a stop at a red light. "no cloud cover." he peers up through the windshield at the dark sky and scattered stars.

"yeah, i guess." murphy follows his gaze. "it would be nice, though. it'll really be winter, then. no more of this late fall, in-between, waiting … stuff." she waves a hand, stuttering it in the air, before reaching for the radio, turning it on with a rush of static.

"it doesn't wor – " harry starts, but is cut off by the muted cheers of the hometown crowd and the announcer talking through the final quarter of the bull's game. "that thing never works! what did you do?"

murphy grins. "magic."

"yeah, yeah," harry says, and squints at the sky. the radio hisses into static again, and murphy snorts, punching it off.

"light's green, harry," she tells him, and he blinks, driving forward through the mostly empty street. "hey!" murphy flings a hand sidewise, face peering out at the sky, and swats at harry's arm, grinning. "you'd make a lousy weatherman, dresden."

harry just smiles, the thrum of murph's happiness charging the air around them, and focuses on the road, a loose thread of will winding from him to the new, low, cloud cover hovering over the part of the city where they're driving, wet, heavy snowflakes drifting down from the dark.

   
   


**12 [41]**

for you beautiful ones my thought  
is not changeable

the explosion shakes the wall he's leaning against, echoes of the impact rumbling through the old building, dispersing into wood and stone. morgan barely notices the faint aftershocks ringing through the estate; the taste of magic is thick in the air, old and undefined and sticky with more than a trace of the Black. "ancient!" he shouts, drawing his sword and sending a rush of will running down the blade as the heavy oak door across the hall from him swings open.

saul, at one side, and allaire, on the other, draw apart. saul lines up against the wall, staff at the ready and aura crackling around him as faint, black-light ripples and a swirl of space. allaire takes a step back, pairing off beside morgan so they square the door, her raised right arm worked with a winding, ivy-like tattoo, a glow in the ink pulsing and ready.

mai strides out, face set and eyes narrowed. trayton, captain of her region's wardens, is a step behind, his warden's cloak flaring with his movement. following trayton, lips folded into a frown, is morningway. his cane is raised slightly off the ground, and morgan can feel the soft thrum of morningway's will, held in check. it is essentially different from the lingering taste of the magic behind the explosion, and morgan's shoulders relax, slightly. it wasn't justin, then; or, it wasn't justin acting directly, he amends the thought a moment later.

"harry!" morningway shouts, pushing ahead past mai and trayton. allaire and morgan drop their stances and fall into place, flanking the rear of the group, with saul stepping up behind them. "harry? what happened?" morningway turns at the end of the corridor, and pushes open a set of double doors, ornate gold handles going unused. "harry! hrothbert!"

the library is a swirl of paper and smoke, sparks of magic-lit flame flashing intermittently in the thick cloud rising slowly to the ceiling and revealing a mess of toppled, broken bookshelves and blown back chairs, a heap of books and splintered wood at the centre of the damage.

there is a flicker of golden light and a second voice shouting "harry!" near the pile, and it takes morgan a double glance to realise that the man shouting is standing _in_ the debris, a golden glow separating the ends of his thighs from the top of the rubble. upended near the heap of books and wooden splinters is a skull, balanced on one eye socket and the curve of a temple. it is old, inscribed with runes, and hums with ancient, powerful, magical bindings. _hrothbert of bainbridge,_ morgan thinks as the pieces fall into place and he draws a deep breath. so this was he, the infamous soul, necromancer and black sorcerer, bound for all eternity.

"ghost!" morningway demands, striding toward the centre of the damage, "report! what has happened?"

bainbridge turns his head, face impassive as he takes in morningway, mai, and her wardens while he answers. "an explosion," he says, turning back to the heap. "contained force, woven with black magic and triggered, i believe, when harry touched one of the books from the mallory estate auction." he steps forward and drops to his knees so that his upper body disappears into the rubble. "and your nephew is somewhere in here." a flicker of orange flame wraps around the parts of his body that are visible, and he vanishes into the debris in a spark of light and its absence, visible in spirals of black, blurred, space.

morningway draws a deep breath and strides forward. "harry!" he lays his cane on the ground, and grabs an armful of books off the top of the pile. "ancient, a hand, perhaps?" justin dumps the books on the ground, and meets mai's eyes over his shoulder.

mai holds his gaze before tipping her chin, one hand raising. "morgan," she says. "saul. assist in recovering the boy."

morgan has only just grabbed a long piece of splintered wood, pulling it free at the base while saul guides the jagged end, when the pile shifts from the inside. books and broken shelves slide down and collapse inward, and a small, long-fingered and bleeding hand reaches up through the pile. it pushes away loose pages and bindings, and is joined by another a moment later.

"harry!" morningway shouts, and grabs up an armful of the rubble around the hands. a head forces its way up through the heap. all morgan can see is a tangled mess of dark hair, but he grabs the struggling hands at the wrists, pulling gently. the boy slides free, the pile collapsing around him, and morgan hauls him to his feet. around the boy's body, although avoiding morgan's hands, the spark of light and un-light winds and flickers, disappearing behind his back.

"harry, are you all right?" moringway pushes in beside morgan, and harry tips his head, a pair of shockingly clear brown eyes peering up through the mess of hair. _morningway eyes,_ morgan thinks before he can help himself, long-studied images of the more infamous morningway family members flickering through his memory. so this was the last of the morningway line. he releases the boy's arms.

"bob?" harry says, turning as soon as morgan lets him go, and struggles to climb out of the debris. there's a bleeding cut on his forehead, and more on his hands and arms. his sweater is torn in a number of places, singed, and bruises are already forming under the dark smudges of soot on his face. "bob!" he falls forward. limbs, surprisingly long for his small body, flail more than climb, and he scoops up the skull morgan has almost forgotten about.

the swirl of light and black appears behind him, detaching out of sight, and reforms into bainbridge. "bob, are you okay?"

_bob?_ morgan wonders as bainbridge raises a hand, mouth opening and eyebrows tight.

"the question, harry," morningway says, "is whether _you_ are injured. the ghost is immaterial."

harry's mouth falls open, but he doesn't say anything, instead peering at his uncle before shooting a glance at bainbridge. morgan, already watching the two closely, almost misses the slight nod bainbridge gives the boy, and the relaxing of harry's shoulders. "i'm fine," he tells his uncle. "just a little banged around. i'm sorry about your library."

"what was the book you touched, boy," mai demands, and harry looks over, noticing the others for the first time. his lips tighten, and morgan watches as his eyes sharpen, narrowing slightly. morningway eyes.

"my name is _harry_," he says. "i told you that last time. and i don't know. i just brushed it. the rest of it's probably in there," he nods back at the pile of rubble, "if you want to look."

"harry," morningway chides, then turns to mai. "excuse us, please, ancient. obviously, the boy's been through an exhausting and frightening event, and i need to verify his claim that he's relatively uninjured. i'm sure we can conclude our business at a later date?"

mai's face is blank, but she nods. "of course, justin." she turns, trayton falling into place behind her. "i will see myself out."

morgan draws up behind trayton and beside allaire, and glances back quickly. past saul's shoulder, morningway is watching them leave, his cane once again held loosely before him. harry has bainbridge's skull in his hands, and his ghost standing at his side.

   
   


**13 [42]**

the heart grows cold  
they let their wings down

the floor beneath his knees is uneven, and he kneels on the rough edge of two stones failing to meet. the sound of his breathing is loud and wet, and the sigil-infused gag stretches his lips wide as it forbids casting. the air feels musty, thick with dust and the hum of magic users that thrums in his arms and down to his fingertips, chained and manacled behind his back though they are.

"hrothbert of bainbridge," says a voice, clear and cold and as rich as a bell at dawn. the blackstaff.

"hrothbert of bainbridge," echoes a second voice, flat and curled and as brittle as early ice. ancient mai.

"hrothbert of bainbridge," repeats a third, solid and strong and as surprisingly gentle as september nights. merlin.

hrothbert can feel a circle close around him with the three uses of his name, power snapping shut and flooding the nameless, shapeless bodies behind and around him. but, it seems, all he can think of is apples, and the colour green.

gwenfrewi had loved swimming, and he can feel her hands running down his arms, pale and strong and white, nail beds blueing from the river, and her mouth on his is wet and cold, dripping with water. it tastes like weeds and mud, and somewhere, underneath it all, apples.

the sound of the council chanting around him is lost to the river, the waterfall churning and frothing, and hrothbert turns his face into the spray. the black hood blinding him, drawn tight around his neck and bound with the ends of his gag, rubs against the cuts on of his face, freshly shorn, and sucks against his mouth. he is surprised to discover that his teeth are chattering. then again, the river is startlingly cold.

there is a moment – just a moment – of clarity, violent and deep and sharper than a sword in the gut. something is _inside_ him, finding every space of his being and it is _part_ of him, built in and binding and hrothbert starts to shake. there is the sound of something shattering, and gwenfrewi runs a hand down his face, leans in to press her cheek against his neck. _shh,_ she says. _hush, now._

there is pain. it radiates out from the back of his skull, and then. nothing but a flood of darkness and the sensation of drowning without breathing, and an anchor pulling him down. if he could, he would scream.

   
   


**14 [43]**

]  
]  
]  
]beautiful he  
]stirs up still things  
]exhaustion the mind  
]settles down  
]but come O beloveds  
]for day is near

 

harry's book has long since fallen to the floor, its landing cushioned by the many layered carpets, and whatever page he was last on lost. harry himself is stretched out on the larger of their couches, head half-supported by an armrest, and bob can clearly see where his relaxed sprawl would have melted slowly with sleep.

bob closes the door quietly behind him, setting the wards back in place with a passing thought, and removes his jacket, shaking loose some of the rain. chicago fills the room, spring, concrete, and lake michigan clinging to the air, and the city lights flash in the outside darkness. water drips down his neck, caught in his hair and curling it into waves and wings. harry is fond of the longer length, if only for the amusement it brings him when its wet.

bob slips off his shoes and pads over the couch, slipping his hands under harry's shoulders, bare and broad and soft, and sits down, lowering harry's head to his lap. he cards his fingers through the dark, damp curls at the base of harry's skull, and presses gently with his fingers, rubbing tight, slow circles. shadows cast by flickering candles trace patterns on harry's chest, hiding olive-toned skin and revealing it again. harry mumbles something and turns, pressing his face to bob's belly. he breathes out, and a moment later an arm wraps around bob's back, pulling them closer.

"was your lead for lieutenant murphy helpful?" bob asks, slowly widening the circles his fingers are making in harry's hair.

harry nods, and mumbles something against bob's stomach that sounds like an affirmative. "'cil?" he asks, and pulls back, trying again. "the council?"

"easily dealt with," bob assures him. "goodness only knows how they ever managed without me to solve all their problems for them."

harry only snickers, and reluctantly releases his hold on bob's middle, pushing himself up, his movements smooth and soft with sleep. he straddles bob's lap, worn pajama bottoms whispering against the fine fabric of bob's trousers, and leans in, one arm reaching behind bob's neck, and the other running down his cheek, fingernails gently scratching the short, trimmed beard.

"well, if anything else happens tonight, they're going to have to look somewhere else," he says. "i'm all done sharing." leaning in, he rubs his cheek against bob's, the rasp of stubble against beard and the gooseflesh it raises along the back of harry's neck welcome and familiar.

"you are, are you?" bob asks, lips tilting in amusement and hands finding harry's lower back, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, and gently squeezing the muscle there. "and what about me? do i need to tell the good lieutenant to find another wizard for the night? i'm afraid mine is already occupied."

"mm," harry says, shaking his head, his nose finding bob's hair and nuzzling. he pulls back and licks away the rain beading along bob's hairline. "already told her. now, shh." bob's quirked eyebrow is expected, and harry sits up straight to meet it with a grin. "please? i was waiting for you."

bob opens his mouth, eyes dancing, but harry catches it with his own before bob can speak, lips soft and clinging. "shh," harry says again, licking against the bow of bob's lips, biting at the line of his jaw. bob hums and contents himself with tracing the lines of harry's back and fisting one hand in harry's soft, coarse, hair. harry's cock is hot and heavy through the thin layer of his pajama pants, and bob's hips roll in time to harry's unconscious thrusts, his own erection pressing tight against his trousers.

harry bites and licks at bob's neck and down his chest, undoing buttons as he goes, and breathing in the touch of the chicago night, the traces of dust and magic that cling to bob from the council meeting, and bob's own scent, warm and dry and heady with musk. he undoes bob's button and clasp fly with the ease of practice, and bob shifts to help him pull the pants down to his knees, boxer briefs following a moment later. harry traces the line of hair leading down from bob's navel with his tongue, and, breathing out, rubs his face against the steel grey curls at the base of bob's cock. his hands slide along bob's hips, anchoring at the dip of his lower back, and after one careful lick up from the base to the tip, swallows him whole.

bob grunts, teeth clenching and hips flexing, fighting himself. the hand in harry's hair tightens even as the other lands there, pulling roughly. harry only bucks, pulling up, tongue tracing slow patterns, and smiles lazily around bob's cock. bob groans once, and tugs on harry's hair again, meeting harry's eyes, glazed, and smile, cheeky, with his own. "glory," he says, soft and hardly more than a breath, then "shh," with a headshake when harry raises an eyebrow. harry slides back down, throat swallowing and rich with a soft, unconscious, humming, and bob closes his eyes, arms and legs trembling.

the darkness behind bob's eyelids is broken by flashes of light and colour, and he watches as worlds die and are born anew. inside his body, his heart is full to breaking. his pulse rises in speed and sound, and almost covers the soft, wet sounds harry is making, and bob's own hitched breathing and wordless endearments, but not quite.

when he can no longer bear to not see, bob looks down. harry's lips have swelled, chapped and full and framed by hollowed cheeks, but it is his eyes, dark and deep and watching him that break bob. harry's name slips from between his lips as harry slides back down and swallows, eyes never leaving bob while bob's hips rise and his hands clench and the world shrinks to hold only them.


	3. Chapter 3

**15 [44AB]**

                                                            [  
                                                            [   
                                                            [  
                                                            [  
of the Muses                                     [  
makes and of the Graces               [  
with slender

                                                            [   
for mortals: there is a share          [  
[

harry's dreams whisper broken words into the night and the room around them, brushing against the dark like wind and curtains; they spell half-remembered sensations against bob, shimmering with promise and a beat as steady and the tide and the surge of wave on land, both dangerous to the unwelcome traveller and inescapable to the desired.

harry's dreams are much like him, and bob traces his fingers along the outside of harry's ear. their contact shimmers gold and harry is belly-down on the mattress, sheets and comforter rucked across his lower back, his mouth slightly open and body lax despite the slow rise of gooseflesh down his arms and the chill of the night.

bob can almost taste 'carolina,' can feel the jagged break of parentheses, a rift on his tongue, and the whisper of direction, swirling and pulling at his manifestation. he raises his hand, breaking the contact between his essence and harry's. the dreams continue on, tease at the air, and spell out promises along bob's hands. 'pullover,' they say, 'road map.' 'lighter.' 'bone.' 'complex structure.' 'aerodynamic.' 'glory.'

ghosts do not dream, and as steady as harry's are, as soft and welcoming as they might be, tugging and elusive and ever-present amongst the night and glow of streetlights, bob steps away, watching, instead, the rise and fall of harry's chest, and the flicker of headlights and shadow across his face. bob does not dream, and as much as harry's dreams may invite him to partake, he has no wish to disrupt the dreaming, nor harry while he is trapped within.

his skull sits on the bedside table, angled half-askew, staring at harry and out the window; bob breaks apart and flows inside to wait for morning with the patterns of light and dark and the changing shades of blue, and contents himself to murmuring promises and the turn of the earth back at harry and his untold dreams.

   
   


**16 [45]**

as long as you want

colm is halfway through his second cup of coffee when she walks in, sending the bell above the diner door to clanging and a slow spiral of shadow sweeping across the front tables, soaking into the warmth of the formica, colm's hands, and the slow viscosity of the day, thick and saturated with maimi sunlight and tangled on colm's tongue with the taste of sweetener.

she's wearing white sandals and a brown skirt that clings to the muscles of her legs, the linen creased and softened in the heat. there's a patch of skin showing at her lower back where the white cotton of her shirt rides up as she lifts her hair, long and dark and glistening with heat, from her neck. her skin is dark with sun and beaded with pinpricks of perspiration; colm blinks at the curve of the muscle there, his shoulders dropping and chest slowly restricting, and his coffee cup held still against his lips.

she orders at the counter and turns, glancing over her shoulder at the length of tables and the few, scattered, diners. her eyes are darker than colm expects, squinted at the edges, and her lips, full and red, push together, pouting and casually tense, and when her gaze flickers over colm he remembers to breathe, his mouth curving at the edges.

her neck is long and strong, tendons standing out under the olive skin when she turns back to the counter, taking the teacup from the waitress with a nod, and colm feels his lips part as his smile widens. the light finds her hair when she bends over the cup, held carefully in one hand while the other squeezes honey from a half-empty plastic bear, and, from somewhere in the darkness, copper glints. colm rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tastes pennies.

the honey stretches through the air, as gold and sleepy as the afternoon that's trapped outside, and colm finally sets his coffee back on the table. his hands, restless, search his pockets, and pull out a pack of a cards. their edges are worn and split, and he drags his thumb over the softened corners.

she catches a drop of honey on her thumb and sucks it off, scraping with her teeth, and balances her cup carefully in one hand as she heads for the farthest booth at the back of the diner. when she passes him, the world smells of jasmine and summer; colm draws in a deep breath, and begins to shuffle. she turns with a start, right hand rising before her and palm facing him, and colm feels his smile widen as he offers her a fan of cards.

"pick a card," he says. "any card." there's a moment between the closing of her eyelashes over her dark, dark eyes and the ducking of her chin when colm is suddenly, painfully, aware of the patches of sweat under his arms, of his hairline, and the sensation of his life stained to his skin. her eyes squint, and colm feels his responding, joy rising up from somewhere below his heart and warming his cheeks.

she begins to laugh, and carefully pulls free a single card.

   
   


**17 [46]**

          and I on a soft pillow  
will lay down my limbs

"heyhey, baby girl," connie says, pressing a finger against anna's nose. "it's bedtime, isn't it? oh yes, it is." she waves a stuffed pink hippo in the air above her daughter's sleepy fists, and grins when one makes contact. "good night, anna-banana." she tucks the hippo under anna's blanket, soft and yellow, and presses two fingers against her lips, then to anna's forehead. "pleasant dreams."

rick reaches up over her head and flicks on anna's mobile, the soft lights of the carrousel horses lighting the small room, and presses his own kiss against the back of connie's head. "good night, anna-lisa," he whispers down at his daughter, and creeps backwards out of the room, connie a step behind.

they close the door, and listen to the soft jangle of music coming through from the other side. connie smiles against the wood, the paint still fresh enough beneath her cheek to bubble and crackle, and rick traces kisses down her neck. he palms one of her breasts, full and heavy and only vaguely sore, and she turns to press a smile into his hair.

"c'mere," she says into his ear, and pushes open their bedroom door, only a step across the hall, and pulls him inside. one of his hands slips down to her belly, still rounder and softer than she'd like, and up under her sweater.

"yes, ma'am," he says, a smile tugging at the lines around his eyes and the sparkle of the green, and he slides his other hand down past the waistband of her jeans. "wait," his eyes squint shut, and he presses a sheepish kiss to her nose. "front door. need to lock it." he untangles from her, and finds her mouth, fast and hard. "i'll be _right_ back."

connie laughs and pushes at his shoulders. "go!" she says, and plops down on the bed as he scrambles. she lies back, sliding her heavy sweater up over her hair, puffing air at the staticy strands that stick to her face, and flings it in the direction of the laundry hamper.

from the hall she can hear the sound of the padlock _snicking_ shut, and closes her eyes, shivering at the winter coolness against her newly exposed skin. there's a pause in the hallway outside the bedroom, a creak and shift on the floor, and she grins as she hears the door across the hall open, a swing of air and hinges. the jangle of carousel music drifts through the air, and she rolls on her side, watching rick's shadow on the carpet hover in their daughter's doorway.

"rick," she calls, "don't you dare disturb her." but she's still smiling into the pillows when rick slides into bed beside her, his mouth at the small of her back and his hands strong and warm against her skin.

   
   


**18 [47]**

                                                         Eros shook my  
mind like a mountain wind falling on oak trees  


ivy leaves crush under hrothbert's hands as he climbs down the wall, soft-coated and crisp when they give, staining the night air and his skin with green and the fading of summer, sticky and wet and late-august bitter. he drops to the ground, landing with a grunt and a tumble forward onto his hands and knees; the dew on the grass soaks into his trousers between heartbeats, and his palms slip as he pushes himself upright.

the wind presses against him as he rises; he lifts his head to breathe in deep, catching the promise of falling leaves and the memories of summer on the notes of the night, and stares up at the darkness of the sky, deep and rich and speckled with stars.

above him, firelight flickers in the open window, and he can hear his brother's laughter, offset by his father's and lighter, feminine voices that are neither his mother's nor his sisters'. hrothbert ducks his head, and hopes that cudberct will remember aeduini in his cradle by the bed.

hrothbert walks along the curve of the stone wall, fingers trailing along ivy and rough stone, passing under the lit windows and the drifting sounds of life within: his sister singing to her son, his mother and her maid, the dogs and the quiet, contained night held safe by walls and steel and the rustle of leaves and branches in the forest, drifting through the clearing that separates their home from the wilds.

the bainbridge name, hrothbert knows, is hardly one built without a foundation of bloodshed and failings, but these are familiar, if nothing else, and the ground that he stands upon is solid and strong and his own, in a way that hrothbert can't always explain, but can feel in his bones, on his skin, and tangled and pooled on his hands, freshly stained though they are.

he rubs his palms against his thighs and breathes deep, of the sky, of the stars, and the coming of autumn, approaching as fast as the dawn. this is his home, and something inside hrothbert rallies against leaving, against being lifted away, torn away, and against anything he does not choose; but in the morning he will be going to the man who trained his brother cudberct, and their mother's brother before him, and he will not deny the rush of excitement uncurling in his belly and burning in his blood.

it chases itself through him, bringing heat to the surface of his skin and his fingertips, and hrothbert leans back against the stone wall of his home, peering at the sky and thinking fondly of love.

   
   


**19 [52]**

I would not think to touch the sky with two arms

harry curls his fingers, digging short, bitten nails into the flesh of his palm, and pressing the tightly clenched fist to his chest. this is the size of his heart, and harry can feel it beating beneath his skin, through the muscle and the solid barrier of his sternum, kept safe and contained by the cage of his ribs.

his heartbeat is fast, but steadier than he expected, and from somewhere the past intrudes and harry watches bob trace a finger around a ventricle and up an aorta, chalk dust and golden light hovering in the air. "lub-dub," this bob says, "lub-dub," and harry's heart slows to match his rhythm.

there are crows outside, strutting on the sidewalk in the grey pre-dawn and perched on the roof of his jeep; they cackle and caw, and one pecks determinedly at a glimmer of light on the plastic wrapped around the broken glass of the front door. harry lets his fist fall, fingers stretching and blood pooling in the row of half-moon cuts, and does his best to listen.

this is a lesson in talking to the dead, and harry shudders as he breathes, focusing on his heartbeat, imagining the crack of his breastbone breaking, the warmth of reaching inside, the flex and quiver of his heart in his hands, and the hollow in his chest where it used to be.

it's dark and it's safe, and for a moment harry wants to stay there, surrounded by the hush and hiss of his lungs, the slow expand and compress of his ribs, before he feels his mouth fall open, and he remembers to speak. "hrothbert of bainbridge," he says, and his heart is heavy; he cups it between his palms.

"hrothbert of bainbridge," he says again, and he hasn't a thing of the ghost's to track him with. the skull, heavily warded, left nothing behind, neither dust nor a chip when it had fallen, crashing to the sidewalk before it was scooped up again by cloaked arms and a shimmer of the nevernever as harry stumbled through the broken door after the ghost and the thief.

"hrothbert of bainbridge," harry says, swallowing the taste of the early morning, tangled with smoke and the promise of spring and rain, and lets his heart beat once more. he has nothing of the ghost's, and hopes a memory will do.

he draws up the softness of bob's hair under his shaking hands, the curve of bob's lips, the line of his back, and the dryness and warmth of the skull against his skin; the ring of bob's laughter and the richness of his voice, how the 'r's in harry's name are made to soften and shine, and the way bob has never failed to meet his eyes.

"bob," harry says, and opens his heart, still beating slowly in his hands, and fills the hollows inside with the memory he's made. outside the crows flap and call, and harry brings his heart back to his chest, filling the empty space with a heavier weight and the lightness of air.

when his eyes open, the sky is clear and blue, and he's shaking. the front room is cold, and harry turns to the kitchen for instant coffee and warm water and to resume his search.

   
   


**20 [54]**

having come from heaven wrapped in a purple cloak

maggie rolls the end of the daisy stem between her fingers, the slender stalk splitting and curling into rough strands and staining her fingers, bitter and fresh and green, before tucking it in to finish the crown she's woven. she ducks her chin and spins the crown loosely in her hands, placing it in her lap and pulling free a fistful of herbs from her bag.

she runs her finger gently over the small purple flowers of the pennyroyal, and breathes in the traces of mint as it tangles with the gold of june and the midday, atlantic, saltwater, catching on the wings and calls of seagulls overhead and the steady crush of waves against cliff. she wraps the long, wiry stem of the soft, bitter, queen anne's lace around her finger, and braids together the tansy and herb-of-grace in time to the rattle of the round, smooth beach pebbles that make up the tideline.

maggie pulls out the long, thick stem of a fairy candle, its sparse, sweet flowers dry and rustling, and turns to the voice that brushes along her neck, ice cold and flush with wild, bloody, heat. "is that for me?"

"lea," maggie says, and the corners of her mouth rise despite themselves. she holds up the herb, the green dark against the blue of the sky and the paleness of the sidhe noble's skin. "would you like it?"

the leanansidhe twists her dark, full, perfect lips, and trails one long finger up the soft underside of maggie's bare arm, a vivid white line appearing on the lightly bronzed skin. "and if i did? would it be payment for asking me here?" she settles on the ground next to maggie, one long leg crossing over the knee of the other. "you have always been one of my favourites, margaret gwendolyn lefay morningway, but do not abuse that privilege."

maggie meets lea's eyes before turning to watch the ocean as the tide slowly comes in, the water rising and dark against the sky.

lea shifts, and takes the fairy candle from maggie's fingers, twirling it carelessly, and presses something into maggie's palm a moment later. maggie glances down and laughs, winding the silverweed in with the pennyroyal. "warding off witches," she asks, "or evil spirits?"

"perhaps both," lea says, and pulls loose the collection of herbs from maggie's grasp. "pennyroyal," she says. "tansy. queen anne's lace. herb-of-grace. fairy candle. dangerous choices, margaret." her eyes fall to maggie's waist, and maggie's chin rises. "i see."

maggie takes the crown from her lap, and offers it to lea

"it seems to me," lea says, taking the crown and placing it on maggie's dark head, "that you have been working toward this for a considerable amount of your mortal time. and you wish to be rid of it?"

"not _this_," maggie says, suddenly hot and cold, magic churning along the her bones, under her skin, and sparking on the pentacle around her neck. "not toward _this_." her hands shake, and her eyes flash, half obscured by the daisy crown as it slips low. maggie pushes it back, and draws a breath.

"i see," lea says again.

maggie reaches up and pulls loose a few daisy petals, letting them fall. "i want you to be his godmother," she says, and looks back at lea.

lea presses her lips together. "that is a considerable request, margaret. you know better than to put the onus of a child's life on my head, my dear. it would hardly sway my decision."

"i know," maggie says. "i want you to aid him when he needs it -- to be there for him when he needs help and i cannot provide it. he needs to be able to trust you, and he needs someone to keep him safe from the rest of the winter and the summer courts, and any others you can keep at bay. they will know he is yours, as well as mine, and whomever else he is given to, or chooses to give himself to. he will be – he will need someone, sometimes." the crown slips, and maggie pushes it back again. "i won't always be able to be there."

lea narrows her eyes. "you are asking me to become the child's godmother."

maggie shakes her head, a smile chasing itself around her lips. "i am giving you the opportunity to be my son's godmother. he will love you," she adds, as they listen to the tide come in.

"he will not have an easy life, margaret. nor have you chosen one for yourself." lea reaches out and strokes a cold hand down maggie's cheek. "i could take you both to safety, if you wish. you make a fine hound; and so would he, given the occasion. you could train him, if that were your wish. you could even bring his father."

maggie laughs again, her smile widening. "thank you, lea, but no. that will be his choice, when you no doubt offer it to him."

"very well," lea says, her hand falling back to her lap. she nods once, and hands maggie the brown, dried remains of her herbs. "i accept. and i wish you well, margaret gwendolyn lefay morningway, whatever good that may do."

"dresden," maggie says, letting the herbs fall and crumble to dust. she presses a hand to her belly. "margaret gwendolyn lefay mornginway dresden."

"i see," lea says once more, and smiles before she vanishes into the nevernever.

   
   


**21 [56]**

not one girl I think  
          who looks on the light of the sun  
                     will ever  
                     have wisdom  
                     like this

the november morning mixes well with the dust, and murphy coughs into her first, her other hand wrapped around a cardboard coffee cup, pressing it to her breastbone. the building before her has been reduced to nothing more than rubble, and she squints at the sky, high and early-morning purple and obscured by a thick cloud of cement grey. she'd spent the night before at the chicago symphony orchestra, a night out she seldom had time for, but anna had pleaded, and for a moment she can still hear a cello, can taste the resin and thrum on her tongue.

"lieutenant," a voice says, young and weary, and murphy turns to the uniform as he makes his way through the rubble, strewn well past where the club had stood and into the street. he's clutching a notebook and has a streak of black across his nose.

"rundle," murphy says, his name taking a moment to slip to her tongue. one of the newer patrol officers, just transferred onto her special investigations unit two weeks before. she'd heard rumours of a confrontation between him and an instructor at the academy, but if there were one thing that her department had in abundance, it was rumours, and she'd paid it no more heed than she had any of the others.

rundle hops over a hastily erected boundary marker, signaling a part of their crime scene, and winces as it topples to the ground. "sorry," he says, his notebook stuffed under one arm as he tries to right it. it falls back over, and murphy waves a hand.

the ground is harder than stone, and murphy can feel each step she takes jangle up her legs and into her teeth. someone had told her once, about the stretch of time between when the earth froze and the first snow stayed on the ground, how it was the time for hauntings and restless spirits, and this is all she can think of, watching rundle trying a second time to keep the marker upright; that it is ghost season. "don't worry about it, officer. it still does its job. what do you have for me?"

rundle glances up at her, then down again, and murphy feels her lips quirk, briefly, at the flush of red that engulfs his ears. "yeah," he says, grabbing his notebook from under his arm. "the club owner. the only name i've been able to get is 'bianca,' no last name, but the three hostesses we interviewed all confirm that she wasn't in the building. hauser is trying to get a number from them, but the only one we have now is a cell, and going straight to voicemail. but, yeah. um." he flips a page, and peers at it.

"here we go. one of the hostesses – miranda lebois – remembers a man coming in before-hours three days ago; apparently he and this bianca had a pretty heated argument. she had the log book – thought to grab it as they ran, smart girl – and lieutenant, it was johnny marcone." rundle's voice breaks a little, and he flushes again.

"marcone?" murphy blinks, raising one hand to brush her hair from her eyes as the wind gusts. "this isn't his style. burning down a building?"

"i know," rundle says, rubbing one foot against the other. "but i though it was – "

" – no, no," murphy says, "you were right to tell me. i want you to follow up on that – just. be careful," she says. rundle nods and trips over the marker again as he leaves; murphy pretends not to notice, _marcone,_ she thinks, and sighs. _things just got complicated._

she takes a long drink from her coffee, still startling hot against the chill of the morning, and turns to stare at the twisted rubble of one of the city's premier clubs. there's a feel about the place, something velvet soft and itchy, an oil slick in the air, and she rubs a hand unconsciously against her pant leg. she reaches a hand inside her coat pocket without thinking of it, and flips open her cell phone; she's halfway through dialing harry's number before she remembers the empty front office and the hastily scrawled note with her name on it.

the phone snaps shut, and she takes another drink.

she's glimpsed a man – tall, black, with a cashmere coat – standing watch around harry's place, sharing her late-night vigils of the abandoned office for the past seven months. she doesn't know his name, but he nods to her when their eyes meet, and she knows she's seen him before; she remembers a rich "lieutenant murphy" and harry's insistence on greek, and if he's been waiting for harry to return for as long as she has, there might be something hope for.

murphy bows her head as she thinks of the twisted, blackened body that was pulled from the rubble. the one casualty, burned beyond recognition, with a wide, flat face, and a distended mouth full of long, sharp teeth, bared in the face of death.

it might just be time to introduce herself.

   
   


**22 [59]**

]  
loves

 

new

around her, the world has become nothing but gold, a sheet that ripples and rustles, and if sarah tips her head back and squints at the sky, the light looks like it's coming from the ground, staining the clouds and the spaces in between. the wind whispers nonsense against her legs, under the hem of her skirt, and the fabric pushes against her skin behind her knees.

clouds pile and break apart along the line of the land, snatches of light peaking through and around, and she turns a palm in midair, catching the flavour of evening and the day. her other hand strokes over her belly, flat and familiar beneath the cotton of her shirt, and lets her hair blow in her face, across her eyes, and caught in the corner of her mouth.

behind her, her father and his crew are tearing down the gates, the electric 'circus' on top nothing but wires and glass. she can hear her father's voice shouting orders, the voices of the men, and the creak of rope and wood, as familiar as the roll of the wheels on the wagons, the putter of the camp car leading their train, and the sun in the sky.

"hey now, miss dresden," says a voice she can hear in her bones, deep and shaking like the earth underfoot, and she laughs as the ground falls away and she is lifted up.

"jack!" she cries, and spreads her arms wide, trusting in the two large hands wrapped around her waist. the wind catches her and the sun burns, and for a minute she is flying.

jack turns her, and a moment later she's peering up at the giant's face, usually more than three feet higher off the ground than her own. "don't get left behind, now, sarah," jack says, his dark eyes grinning down at her, and she smiles back.

"with you to look after me, jack?" she says. "how could i?" sarah stretches up to press and kiss to his cheek, feeling it wrinkle and smile beneath her lips, and the hands around her waist shake; jack's laugher is rich and low like water underground.

jack carries her to an open wagon, plopping her down on the wooden seat at the back, next to claire and melody, the joined twins. claire laughs, silver bells and clear water, and mel raises an arm to pat at jack's hand, sliding the other around sarah's waist and pulling her close. sarah leans in, breathing in the sweet pink smell of the twins' dress and the hay from their mattress, and presses in with her hip, pretending she's as joined as they are.

"sarah, sarah-beth, sarah-beth dresden," mel says, clasping sarah's chin and grinning foolishly. "now, you _know_ that your wagon is next to ours, so being neighbourly and all, i do think you owe us an explanation." her teeth flash straight and white, and claire tips her head back to peal laughter at the clouds. "where _did_ you go, miss bess, that had you sneaking in this morning before dawn? and don't deny! you know you can't lie to us."

mel digs her elbow into sarah's side, and sarah stifles a yelp, elbowing back even as sense memory runs stiff cotton and soft brown hair through her fingers; the light in deep blue eyes and the gentle lines of a new soldier's fragile smile. he's as far away as she is now, a town away, and tomorrow on a train, and then on a ship, and sarah ducks her head before grinning back at the twins.

"oh hush, you two; you know a lady never tells." she pauses a moment before her lips split wide in a smile, and she can feel the blood rush to her cheeks. "his name was private daniel malcolm," she begins, and the wagon starts forward. she watches the world bend gold and bright around them, and smiles at the sun. "he's 23 years old, and has never seen the ocean."

   
   


**23 [61]**

they became[  
for not

"harry," bob says. "harry, really."

the foot near the manifestation of his head twitches, and bob pinches his lips before running a hand up through the bottom of harry's sole, dark and lined with dirt from the grounds, and out mid-shin, earning a flailing of long, lean limbs and a startled squawk. shadows pin-wheeling through the late-summer day, shining in through the large library windows, and harry grunts.

"thank you, mr. dresden," bob says, eyebrow raised but lips slowly pushing out as he contains his smile, harry gazing blearily up at him from behind his fringe of blinking lashes, and a red imprint of the couch armrest dark against one cheek.

harry opens his mouth, but licks his lips instead, a gust of air escaping as he swings his legs down from the opposite armrest, his bare feet finding the library floor with a thump. he shakes his head, bringing up a hand to push back his hair, and the book that had been laying open-faced on his chest is transferred to his lap. "bob?"

he sounds far more lost that bob was expecting, and bob frowns, bending down to a height that recalls harry's younger face and chalk dust shimmering in the frailty of winter sunlight. the last of harry's baby fat is smoothing away, revealing strong bones and sharp angles, and bob is reminded, again, of madeleine lefay on her first visit to the american mornginway estate. "harry," he says, "i know that advanced conjuring has never held your interest, but adams is worth reviewing. your understanding of the theory is exemplary, but does tend to fall apart in the practice. you can't deny that – "

harry shifts, his eyes flickering away, and bob peers down at the book in harry's lap. "a guidebook. the united kingdom. harry, really. the least you could have done was hide some dirty pictures inside of it."

harry chokes on his laugh, eyes bright and aglow, and he lifts the book, cheeks flushing peach under his summer-tinted skin. he grabs a cushion and curls himself around it, long bare limbs and awkward grace, and closes the guidebook. "justin has a trip to london in october," he says, "and he said i could come. it's for three weeks, so i thought, maybe." he turns the book carefully in his hands; ducks his eyes behind his hair. "i was trying to figure out how to get to bainbridge, because, if justin can trust me in london for almost a month, he can trust me not to get lost, right? and i'm used to travelling – i'm good at it! and i haven't forgotten - so i thought maybe you could come, because he wouldn't want me to get behind on my studies, right? and we can see what's changed, and what's the same."

he finishes in a rush, and bob almost thinks he can feel the heat from the slant of sunlight he's standing in, the same one that catches the lighter browns in harry's dark hair and casts shadows of his eyelashes across his cheeks. "harry," he says. "harry."

harry tips his head, a mannerism bob recognises as his own, and it is that which makes his incorporeal chest ache. "harry, while i am deeply touched, your uncle would never allow my skull to make such a journey; i will no doubt remain here for the duration of your trip. and i am certain he has made provisions for your education whilst away, which will occupy your full time."

"oh," harry says, and looks down at the book in his hand.

"however," bob says, and rises to his feet, doing his best to smile down at the top of the dark head. "if you will be going to london, we must review those lessons, as well. we can hardly have you trampling around, unawares. tomorrow," he says, and turns away. behind him, he can hear harry scramble to his feet, and can feel his skull as its lifted from its resting place and cradled between two arms. "because i do believe we have some conjuring to review."

the shadows in their corner of the library break apart as they reach a window, and harry stumbles to a stop beside him, squinting at the light. "kay," he says. "but you have to tell me about bainbridge tomorrow, then. and i'm still asking justin. so you have to help me come up with a plan."

"your loyal servant," bob says, and echoes harry snicker with his own.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tv references to episode 1.10, _What About Bob_ and 1.06, _Walls_; the quoted dialogue in 25 taken directly from _Walls_.

**24 [69]**

]  
]sinful  
]

kirmani sips his coffee and speads his case files across his desk one-handed, wincing at the burn on his tongue and scanning over murphy's neat, typed notes. he's gotten good at reading between the lines - murphy's lines, at any rate, and the lines that seem to follow her, pile up like cars and ice in january - and what the notes aren't saying sinks in his stomach. kirmani takes another drink of coffee and compares the burn.

it's the rhythm that gives it away; the staccato of her pacing and the short, chipped sentences. there's no noticeable brevity - no missing pieces, nor anything left unaccountable - or the overabundance of detail that could catch her in a lie. there's nothing to separate this file from any of murphy's others, save for the burning that's chewing a hole in his middle. but he knows, and the surety stands out as bold and familiar as the phrasing that teases around specifics - _unnamed sources, consultant, unknown individuals_ \- and kirmani holds the words on his tongue. harry dresden. wizard. magic. spooky stuff.

he sets his mug down hard on his desk, and hisses as coffee sloshes over the top, hitting the back of his hand, and he shakes it, swearing and rubbing it against his suit jacket. he glares at the mug and the files, and then down at his hand. "stupid wizard," he says to it, and brings it up to suck on the largest burn. "dresden," he grumbles around the skin. "_harry_. like anyone would believe _that_." it's true, though. he looked it up, when murphy first brought him in as a "special consultant." not much on him at all, or his family, but he'd never changed his name. "some con artists have all the luck."

kirmani pushes a picture with his finger, this one black and white, but the starkness does nothing to diminish the content, leaving blood splatter like inverted stars and the pool of blood under the young man's body as a puddle of unbroken space. sid presses his fingertip to the man's, alan vandiel's, upturned cheek, and waits for inspiration to strike. seeing his body like this, broken and bent at all the wrong angles, makes it easy to believe in monsters, in scaley, slimey, fanged, creatures under the bed and in closets and waiting in the shadows. but kirmani doesn't need monsters, not like those, anyway; his world is full of them, and he can't take comfort in pretending that they don't have faces and names and lives like everyone else.

he taps his finger against the sleek surface of the photo, lips pushing together and teeth brittle inside his mouth. alan vandiel's eyes look past his, terror and wonder fixed on his face, and kirmani's stomach burns. more and more of these cases, even when they're closed best they can be, like this one, are ending up on his desk, and it makes him ache, makes his head pound and his jaw clench, and he finds himself staring at murphy's back most days, while she's bent over her own work and his waits patiently for him, watching the way she holds her shoulders and the tension in her neck.

murphy's a good cop, one of the best, and he's glad to be her partner, but he knows she's breakable, just like monsters with human faces and everyone else, and her little blue bottle rattles loudly some days, just in case he's forgotten. dresden gets results: cases close and parents are given answers, however fragile, that they wouldn't have gotten otherwise. but each case that they take means another monster loose and another death, and kirmani is getting sick of pictures like the one under his hand, and the answers he wants despite himself.

dresden is trouble, he tells himself, taking a long, slow drink of coffee. the burn in his mouth sends a fresh jolt of pain running through him. dresden gets results and they're needing more and more of them. murphy's chair is empty, and kirmani pulls the file folder over top the picture. he doesn't know anyone who sleeps anymore, and wonders if dresden's going to be there the next time he's pulling bodies out.

   
   


**25 [74B]**

]  
]longing  
]

bob's skull is dry and warm beneath his hands, the smooth grooves of the carved runes and sigilia familiar against his skin, and harry brushes careful fingers along the broken edge of the hole on the back. he's never asked about the curse, not really. it trips his tongue, doesn't fit right like starched pants in the summer sun and justin's hand on his shoulder and a string of new names and faces twisting in his head, and he'd much rather have the coolness of the bone in his grasp, safe and guaranteed, then risk it all in a stumbling of unwanted questions and answers. somewhere deep inside, harry mourns how the skull has changed size, now cradled easily in one hand where it used to take two, and marvels at the texture of age beneath his skin, the drag of the whorls and loops of his fingerprints against the already marked bone.

"well," bob says, appearing at his side. "i would call this a successful day. a villain slain; an almost innocent almost saved. and you got to set something on fire; you always enjoy that."

harry bares his teeth in a smile, pressing his palms against the hinges of bob's jaw, and sees raychelle as the car runs her down, the ruined bodies of two boys who didn't know what they were playing with, and the melting remains of the ghost who caused it all. "and you got to mock my second language abilities. turned out well for you, too."

"second language, please," bob says, and his grin is as fixed as harry's. "if only it were just the second languages that warranted the attention."

harry doesn't ask about the curse because he doesn't want to know; it settles like an anchor around him, pulling his middle and tethers bob, keeps him afloat and chained to the skull harry holds in his hands and the realm in which he lives, and the fragility of it, of the bone and of the ghost, teases at harry's fingers, at his vision and his heart, and he's sick with it. "take it up with my teacher," he advises, and knows how bob's face feels when it stretches into that smirk; his own feels the same, and harry can't separate what pieces of himself are his own, and what are bob's.

"you did the right thing with that boy, harry," bob says. his words pass like a beam of bright in the dark, a lighthouse offshore and off-course and just south of rocks and ruin. "with dante. you guaranteed him an apprenticeship and deterred the execution the council would have no doubt found necessary to sentence him in a few years time. talent awoken is hard to ignore, and temptations are strong, particularly for those who don't know the rules. morgan will find the boy a place, and will no doubt add a new warden to his ranks, in time."

"one more person to watch my back for, then," harry says, lips curling, and he shakes his head, running a hand over his face. his stubble rasps against his skin, and he ducks his chin. _i've made my peace with my situation ... i will never escape. only your uncle held that key, and he's gone._

harry's hands start to shake, and he puts the skull down carefully on his desk, keeping one palm spread over the the top. _how would you destroy me if you had to?_ it's wrong, wrong, and he's wrong with it, turned inside out, burning and shaking, and all he can think of is the redness of bob's lips, the wet and brightness and intensity of his eyes, and the soreness in his own jaw, muscles tense and gaze blurry, bob's voice deep inside him, clawing and tearing, and he wanted to scream, wants to scream, and instead presses gently on the old bone under his hand.

_well bob, i'd smash your skull._

"i'd never, bob," he says, chokes on it, and stumbles to his feet, pushing off the skull and towards the door. "i'm sorry, but i swear, i'd never." the light outside is blinding and he walks into it, the glass door banging shut behind him.

   
   


**26 [76]**

]  
] might accomplish  
]  
] I want  
] to hold  
] said  
]

two months after his mother's death, colm merges onto the 1-70, his second-hand ford rattling familiarly beneath him and the sky paling slowly with the day. the line of light on the land is about the same colour as the space in his stomach and the chill between his throat and diaphragm, and he flips the visor down against the pink and bright of the rising sun, coming in behind him and reflecting wide and wild in the cab. the radio hisses white noise and static, and he reaches for the dial, scanning through the stations and straining for human voices. there's a crackle and burst that sounds like old blues, and another that's just a murmur of speech, indistinct and alien and knee-deep in places and people far away.

colm turns the radio off with a twist of his fingers; it always works better at night, anyway, when the rustle and gold of corn and wheat along the highway is as close and distant as the stars and the next town, and the sound of someone else as clear and desperate as bells in the morning. he changes lanes and gears, and presses gently on the gas pedal, gaining speed and watching the white, dashed lines fly past beside him, abbreviated and stuttering along the interstate. an old urge tugs at him, and he smiles, resisting the compulsion to count the lines as they pass, and thinks instead of the cheers his mother would give whenever he reached a thousand, and the half smile she'd wait with, while he decided the next song they'd sing, before he started to count again.

she'd be demanding her turn to drive, by now, the remains of his coffee grown cold in its throw-away cup, and fill the space in the truck and the sky with landmarks and her past, tangled truth and story and how they were all made of both.

the sun gains height and the sky is already inner-lit with the familiar blue and glow of morning, and colm tips his head, squinting at the pull and groan of sore muscles. the box with his kit packed tight inside shifts in the back, and the weight and shape of his pack of cards, close and familiar, in his back pocket presses against his skin. he flips the radio on again, and focuses on the road. mom had always said that things will find you as long as you're looking, and he can't think of anything better, certainly not the empty house two and a half days back, wood and worn, or the box of ashes tucked between his rings and silk scarves.

he's going to keep driving west until he runs out of road, and decide whether to go north or south from there.

   
   


**27 [78]**

]  
]nor  
]desire  
]but all at once  
]blossom  
]desire  
]took delight

the late-summer night thrums outside their door, chicago pressing close in the still air, all pavement losing heat to the cooler evening and the low-hanging weight of the dark sky and the stars. shadows and street lights chase each other across the floor and the walls, catching on the odds and ends that harry has collected and scattered across his home and office, and bob watches the approach and retreat of headlights as cars drive past.

harry is dragging his dufflebag up the stairs. the thumps and grunts and the clamour of his feet on wood give shape to the apartment, clearing darkness from the hidden spaces and disturbing the dust, and the echoes map the structure in bob's mind. his skull grins at him from the table where harry had placed it - carefully, gently, with a lingering pat to the top, his large palm closing over the arch of the bone - and bob squints at it. upstairs, the bed creaks, an unexpectedly familiar sound that jerks his essence and opens him wide, showing sky and stars and the way the corners have been worn off him with time, and bob is glad to be home.

"bob?" harry says, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. his hand lingers on the rail, and his lips curve as slow and sweet as the surf they have left behind. "you okay?" the darkness hides his voice like it does his skin, reveling patches at a time, and his warmth weaves through the air, dodging and passing from molecule to molecule until it reaches bob, mingles with his essence as snatches of sound and almost-touch entwined.

"of course, harry," bob says, and harry releases the railing, pushing forward, and breaks through shadow and light until he's scooping bob's skull from the table and folding it in the crook of one arm, his other hand trailing fingers over bone, the soft rasp of skin and contact as familiar to bob as the lines of the markings to harry's fingertips. sand catches under harry's fingers, rock and shell worn down with time and jarred loose and brushed back into the carvings, and scratch at the bone. bob can see a stretch of shoreline, can taste salt in the back of his mouth.

"just checking," harry says, and his voice is unexpected, jolting along the smoke and light and the bits of the NeverNever that craft bob's form, husky and pulling deep on promises inside bob, catching on the stitches holding him together. there's a ghost story under harry's skin, and when bob runs a hand along it, intersecting cells and flesh and bone, he can taste it. there's a place in harry's chest, in his heart, that's heavier than the rest and speaks with the dead and bob shimmers when he answers, echoes harry's gasp with a ripple of light and cohesion, and for a moment he is flooded with chill air and rain and the desperate warmth of harry's blood.

his touch raises goosebumps and shivers and bursts of nerves firing and firing again, and bob digs as deep as he can, pressing close and riding harry's muscles as they clench and unclench from the inside, tangles with his lungs and is inhaled, and fancies he can feel small bruises as they appear, scattered and making constellations, on harry's skin.

when harry has stopped shaking, bob pulls back into himself, and watches harry's eyelashes brush his cheeks until his eyes finally open. he still has a hand on bob's skull, and bob puts his own in the same place; the wetness spreading on harry's jeans is a patch of darkness like the one hiding bob's eyes, and bob smiles. "upstairs," he says, and leaves the world spinning on.

   
   


**28 [82B]**

and if                         [  
nothing              [

but now                          [  
don't                                [

more finely shaped

maggie's legs stare back at her from under the desk, long and stretched out past the hem of her skirt. there are scars on her knees, red and shiny against the skin, darker-toned than her brother's and her father's and her mother's, but she recognises the curve of her knees themselves as her father's, his hidden though they often are under thick woolen trousers. the lines of her calves are echoed in him as well; she already stands almost equal to her mother, and might be as tall as her father someday.  
she kicks of her shoes and eyes her toes; they are another story, and she doesn't see them in anyone she knows, but her ankles betray her as her mother's daughter every day.

her brother is trickier, and maggie peers at him across the room, chin held in one hand as he scowls at the books open before him. at ten his hair is slowly darkening, losing the morningway gold of their father and the redder, burnished, gleam of their mother, and settling somewhere in between his boyhood blond and her own dark curls. justin looks so much like their father that it's a shock, sometimes, when he looks up, and their mother's eyes stare back. but there's no one but justin underneath, peeking out when he smiles, just a little, back at her.

maggie will never have that problem, she knows. her mother might say she looks exactly like her grandmother lefay, but adds that her eyes have marked her as a morningway from the moment she opened them, and maggie drops her gaze back to the papers spread out before her, adding another sigil to the formula.

the equation is basic, and maggie looks away again. justin has a spreading blot of ink at the corner his mouth, and maggie pushes her lips together as he frowns, so serious. maggie shoots a look at the study door. their mother is nowhere to be seen, not even the murmurs of her and wizard pietrovitch's conversation drifting down the corridor, and father is back in europe again, time devoured by council business and this war that promises to never end.

justin is working on land treatises and maggie wrinkles her nose for him when she draws in on his side, placing a hand over his own as he tries to track the ownership of morning's way with the signatories for the dumorne claims to the lefay titles. he's confused the mallory lines, and maggie is glad to pull him to his feet before he realises he has the wrong cousins marrying three pages back, placing a finger over her lips and tipping her head toward the large picture window. mother and wizard pietrovitch will be talking for hours, maggie knows, and it hasn't been that long since he appeared at their door, tall and wide and with a brisk nod for all of them, and maggie has never let an opportunity pass her by.

the locks pop open with a brush of her will, and justin hesitates for only as long as it takes her to get her legs outside before he's at her side, hoping awkwardly onto the lawn. he turns and waits and she slides over the ledge, a red handprint bright on his cheek, still full and soft with baby fat, and by the time her feet find the grass, his smile is as wide as her's, and his round little hand slips easily into her own when they start to run.

   
   


**29 [83]**

]  
]right here  
]  
](now again)  
]  
]for  
]

harry spins the globe, holding his fingers just close enough to feel the surface, raised with mountains and smooth with plains, and watches it turn. ocean blurs into land and back into water, blues and greens and browns spinning faster and faster under his touch until the world is a coloured streak, smearing between his hands, and he stops it with a jab.

the old cardboard rattles under his finger, pinning it still, and he shoots a quick glance over to the cash register, but murphy and the sales girl are chatting over a spread of paintbrushes and different types of paper, and he ducks down again, hunching small as he pulls his finger away to see where he's landed.

somewhere in the middle of the atlantic ocean. well. his face twists it on itself, and he snorts out through his nose, flicking the globe back into motion.

when he pins it again, he's found a mountain range, the himalayas, and he grins, tracing the bumps and falls of the peaks and valleys. he's only seen them from the foothills, rising high and clean and white against a grey sky, blurred with cool rain and his cheeks had burned red, blood hot and stung to the surface with the hint of cold, and his breath had floated about his head. he claps his hands and can still feel the slickness of the air.

another spin stops inside the arctic circle, and he's looking for the closest town when murphy clears her throat. he knocks the globe off the counter and scrambles to catch it, scooping it one-handed before it hits and ground and snagging the atlases his arms had dislodged with his other hand.

murphy is scolding him with a raised eyebrow when he turns around, a bag looped over her wrist and a spindly-legged, vaguely nautical contraption of wood and bright hinges tucked under one arm. "you're like a big kid, dresden, y'know that?"

"you get anna's gift?" harry asks, and carefully nudges the globe back into position with a quick finger and a bit of pressure against the metal base.

"yeah," murphy says, and a smile teases the corners of her lips. "yeah, she'll love it. c'mon. i'm hungry." she elbows the glass door open, a bell at the top jangling against the glow of the sun sliding westward, still showing between buildings, and the craft shop closes in on itself, tight and contained, with a shift of air pressure and the soft-fingered brush of city and summer against their skin.

the sky has unwrapped the world and harry tips his head back, space painted over with wind-broken clouds, pink and scattered and bright, and he winks back at the darkening blue peeking through.

   
   


**30 [87C]**

]  
]daring

murphy had talked about walls like they were something built, something made layer by layer with steady hands and a strong will and dry eyes, but when the door closes behind her, harry shivers at the rattle of wind and glass, the place in his chest where his life-force had drained away aching with cold, and can feel the thicket and thorns of his own growing taller.


	5. Chapter 5

**31 [87D]**

]  
]  
]  
]youth  
]  
]  
]  
]  
]  
]

anna's waiting outside her office door, shuffling from one foot to another with her backpack held from one hand and banging against her knees, the old khaki canvas splattered with paint and stains and small, time-worn holes. her shoes don't match and there are tears in her shorts that can't be accidental, but her smile is genuine and murphy smiles back, giving a wave with her fingers, phone pressed to her ear while she jots down a few quick notes and shoots a look at the clock on her desk. anna's early. good. the last thing murphy wants to do is have worked late on the first day of her daughter's summer with her.

she tips her head to the chair in her office, and anna nods, draping herself across it while murphy powers down her computer, making the occasional sound, pleasant and noncommittal, into the phone as captain lasander from narcotics talks. she has her briefcase packed, and only the notebook, the phone cradle, her plant, and a few pictures are left on her desk by the time lasander takes a breath.

she jumps on it. "stan, that's great, and i've got the details down, but i have to let you go. i'll talk to you on monday about it; have a good weekend!" she pushes frantically at the 'off' button while anna laughs, her mouth wide and open and stretched in a grin. at sixteen, her daughter has a few inches on her in height and a jaw that comes from her father, but they look startlingly alike, and murphy recognises the expression. she puts the phone down. "benefit affair," she says, rolling her eyes. "good cause; horrible bureaucracy. ready to go?"

anna nods, slants of sunlight through the blinds throwing stripes around the room and catching on the chunks of red and purple in her short, dark hair. the studs through her eyebrow and cheeks throw little dots of reflected light across the walls. "yeah," she says. "i'm starving. i know it's early, but i was covered in paint at lunch, and didn't want to risk swallowing lead and cobalt along with my sandwich." she laughs and shrugs, and murphy can see a few smears of paint from her summer classes left on her arms.

"all right," murphy nods, looping her arm through anna's and they match strides, dodging suspicious stains on the special investigations headquarters old carpeted floor. "i'm pretty hungry, too. i think my lunch disappeared somewhere between reports five through eleven. there's a family buffet on the way home; small, but incredible. and harry's not with us," she adds with a wink, "so they'll probably even let us in."

   
   


**32 [87E] **

]  
]queen  
]  
]

the door to her rooms creaks open, slipping shut again a moment later, and madeleine morningway pauses in her reading, looking down while she listens to the soft, expected footfalls stumble across the room. the bed dips when margaret crawls into it, and madeleine raises her book in time for maggie's dark head to poke through underneath. she's nothing but teeth that are too big for her mouth and fine-textured curls and dark, dark eyes, and madeleine drops her jaw, opening her mouth wide in affected shock and blinking until maggie giggles, fat baby cheeks flushed red and squinting up.

madeleine pushes against the bed, hoisting herself into leaning against the headboard and pillows, and leaves the book face down on the covers, scooping maggie under the arms and pulling her into her lap, cradled between her thighs and the tightly-drawn tent of the bedsheets. maggie's nightdress puddles around her feet and falls past her wrists, and she blends with the white of the bed and walls and the curtains, where they're billowing about the window, and the pre-dawn grey of the sky. her dark hair and eyes are bright and bold and stand out like a ship on the horizon, and madeleine can see jacob in them as clear as day.

more than mid-way through thee years old, maggie is getting too big for her lap, especially with her belly showing as it is, with only two months of the pregnancy remaining, but madeleine holds her close. she has a sweet smell that matches the pink bow of her mouth, fresh and growing and shot through with linen and rainfall and the early morning chill. maggie presses a small hand against madeleine's belly, spreading her fingers wide.

"that's your brother," madeleine says. "be careful; he's still sleeping. you don't want to wake him. and i do wonder what you are doing up so early, mm?" maggie nods, brown eyes so serious, and madeleine reaches for her other hand, drawing it up and holding it against her stomach. "but you can say hello if you want."

the door to her rooms opens again, and madeleine frowns at the clock. quarter past six. it really is too early for the household to be up and about, especially with jacob away. the servant golem pauses inside the open door until madeleine calls it over. it's shaped female and dressed as a maid, but her clear eyes still look like glass when the light catches them, and the red to her hair reads somehow false. she holds out a small package, tightly wrapped in brown paper and string, and madeleine dismisses her once she's accepted it. it's splattered with rain, and still hums with the magic that sent it from its origin in through the morningway estate mailslot.

madeleine waits until the door has shut behind the golem to open the package, snapping the string with a focus of will, and the brown paper rustles and crinkles in her lap as she spreads it out. maggie has the string and is chewing on it. she recognises the box by the time she has it half unwrapped, peeling away layers of brown paper to expose a centre that is hollow and old and fits comfortably in her hand. it is her sister's box. once their mother's, and her mother's before her, but she had died more than 140 years ago, and the box, and its contents, had been lorraine's since.

madeleine's hands do not shake when she opens the box and pulls out the lefay family pentacle, nor when she undoes the thin gold chain lorraine had worn it on and fastens it around her own neck. maggie has noticed, and stares at the pentacle, freshly polished and glinting silver in the weak morning light, before madeleine slides it under her nightclothes, letting the cool weight rest between her pregnancy-swollen breasts.

maggie reaches for the box, her chubby fingers pushing past the sealed letter and pulling out the ring of keys, shaking them happily. wood, stone, metal, and bone rattle against each other, and madeleine catches maggie's hand with her own, carefully pulling the keys from her. "hush," she says. "careful. not now, margaret."

the box closes with a snap, the keys inside and the letter on her lap, and madeliene finds a smile for her daughter's surprised scowl and empty hand. "when you're older, baby. you'll get them then."

   
   


**33 [100]**

and with delicate woven cloths covered her up well

the first time she dies, she is alone. the maid follows her blood into the woods, and brings her body home, her flesh pale and her lips stained and her skin cold to the touch. she's been dead for more than a day before they make it back; the horses' hooves are caked with mud and their eyes roll and the maid trembles. hrothbert lays gwenfrewi down on their bed, brushes shaking fingers against her waxy cheek, and kills the maid when she admits to having torn out and thrown away the arrow that pierced gwenfrewi's heart.

it takes six months before he succeeds in bringing her back. he wards her body against wear and decay, repairs the damage from the death and first day, and keeps her in a pool of river water. his apprentice replaces the water hourly to keep it cool in the summer months, and meets an end in november as the ground begins to freeze; the villagers stop burying their dead nearby and hrothbert remembers the boy was the maid's brother in time to stop him from dumping gwenfrewi in the river when ice appears on the pool and the boy's usefulness ends. he had little real talent, but still a spark, and his life helps restore hers.

in those six months hrothbert learns more about the human form than he had learnt in the fifteen decades before. he knows the approximate weight of every rib, the length of the intestines, the thickness and layers of skin, can map the pathways taken by blood and air and nerves, and has a name for every muscle and bone in the body. but it is not enough, and two weeks after he brings her back, gwenfrewi dies a second time, screaming and twisted and wrong.

it takes longer to repair the damage this time, but he succeeds, and the realisation that he needs firsthand, comparable observation comes while mending the tears and bite marks in her wrists. he brings backs the young girl and the old man and the woman time and again until they no longer scream or cry, can hold their limbs steady, and answer all questions he asks them. he burns their remains and looses them in the river to wash away any magical traces, and when the warden comes, she is the perfect size and age and hrothbert thanks her while they frees her ashes.

occasionally gwenfrewi suffers nightmares, and once hrothbert pulls her back from a ravine and shakes her free of her daze. after that they remain together even as she begins to waste, and eventually drowns in blood when her strength is not enough to lift her head or swallow or breathe. hrothbert cannot repair all the damage, but replaces the most ravaged parts with new ones.

he has learnt his lesson, and keeps the blue bird with the raven's wings and the mouse with the rat's heart in cages in the lab. there is no warden this time, so hrothbert sings songs that gwenfrewi had loved and relies on the life forces of three women instead. it is spring, there are new leaves on the trees and runoff in the river and a lightness to the air, and he can feel the like thrumming beneath his skin when finds a maid, a wife, and a crone.

gwenfrewi laughs when he tells her, and feeds their new pets from the palm of her hand. she sees terrible things when her eyes are closed, and eventually when they are open, the colour bleeding slowly from them over the years. within a decade she whispers nonsense to him at night, and when she warns him that the wardens are coming, a generation since horthbert has been nothing but a fireside story in the villages around their home, her eyes have lost all colour.

they make it to her family home in cymru before they are found again. she is beheaded while the warden's blood runs down his belly and her sword, and hrothbert burns the rest, keeping one alive despite his protests. his power is great, and hrothbert sees far away stars and black space while he fuels the spell and gwenfrewi's life, then calls up a spring from the earth to wash away their tracks.

gwenfrewi sleeps deeply at night and long into the day, and when hrothbert asks about her nightmares she smiles and kisses him, tasting of earth and water and the apples she loves. her eyes do not regain colour, but her hands are steady when they map his body, and she grows a garden and starts an orchard and fills a grimoire with twisting words and delicate sketches.

she begins to bleed after fifteen years. her hair is brittle and her skin is grey and one day he finds the rags before she burns them; she shows him the beds of her nails, her ears, her navel, between her legs. she warns him again when they are discovered, and fights as strongly by his side as she ever did, tearing black holes in the air that promise things far greater than hrothbert knows, but it is the bleeding that betrays them, and she collapses, pale and drawn and almost dry.

they hold her body between them, remove her head and limbs while he struggles and screams, fighting as they try to gag him, striking as many down as he can, and hrothbert can smell her flesh burning when they pull the black hood over his head and finally spell him asleep.

   
   


**34 [104B]**

of all stars the most beautiful

the water swallows the sun, shining pink then purple and gold while a blue that glows from the inside-out creeps in from the corners of the sky. the tide comes in as the night settles, and bob watches it until the waves have grown black on black, crests white on the dark shore and space above endless and distinguishable only by the stars. harry still hasn't returned.

the grasses rustle and sway, wind blowing dry weeds and wildflowers, and the nightlife stirs. a swarm of insects flies through his chest, tiny, brief sparks of life and gold light, and bob can hear the muffled, rapid passing of something quick and small and close to the ground. he hears harry before he sees him, too. bob listens to the flip-flop of harry's impractical footwear and the rolling of stones on the worn gravel path that runs behind the two-room cottage they are staying in, and lets the wind blow through him, laden with promises that he reads as wet and salt and summer.

"hey," harry says, shuffling to a stop beside him, shifting his weight back and forth with the waves. bob imagines harry's hips, narrow and sharp and pale, rising and falling as the water meets them and retreats, his skin left shining back at the stars. "have a good day?"

"yes," bob says, honesty heavier than air, and turns to look at harry. even in the dark, he can see how harry's skin has changed, new gold painting shadows around his eyes, across his cheeks; harry's arm, when he raises it, flashes lighter as he turns his palm, exposing the pale underside. "and your walk?"

"good," harry says; opens his mouth, closes it, and brushes his outstretched hand through his hair. "i've been running it a lot, the route, but on the beach, and i took the road back. it was nice to see it going slower - and from above." he waits, rocking back on his heels, and swats absently at a swarm of mosquitoes. "i can take you with me tomorrow, if you want. or some other time. there's never anyone around. i mean, there's a couple of cottages farther into woods," he gestures with his head, tipping it back and in the direction from which he came, and bob remembers the dark smudge on the daylit horizon."but we shouldn't run into anybody else unless we head into the town, and that's a couple hours away. good coffee, though, and an all-day breakfast at this little family-owned place. had it at lunch. we don't have too," he adds. "go anywhere. i'm good here."

bob watches harry's eyelashes against his cheek, and thinks of their two-room cottage: the pile of worn blankets by the bed; the old wood-burning stove in the center of the main room; the stacks of cans in the cupboards; the notebooks he hasn't let himself look into; the small outhouse with the banging door in the field at the back.

"besides," harry says, "i've only gone there a handful of times all year, and it's pretty small. if i start showing up too often, they'll get suspicious. curious. small towns, you know." his laugh is dry, a huff of air, and bob supposes he does know.

"oh, harry," he says.

harry crumples, spirit fragile like paper wings, and his eyes close. "i'm trying, bob, i promise. i really am."

"i know, harry," bob says, raises a hand that almost glows in the dark, and lets it curve in the shape of harry's cheek. "i know. and, dear boy, that is unbearably cruel."

bob is not surprised when harry steps forward, bringing himself inline with bob's palm, nor when he presses his lips against the space where bob's would be. a flush of gold lights up the night around them.

"bob," harry says. "please. i _choose_ this."

   
   


**35 [105A]**

as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch   
             high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot –  
no, not forgot: were unable to reach

"hrothbert of bainbridge," says a voice, clear and cold and rich and it passes through him, settles and rings at the core of him like a bell and the dawn, "i summon you."

the command finds him and pulls, and he is drawn from the darkness and the absence (of touch, of time, of sound, of life) and into the dim and shadows of a cave. the blackstaff stands before him, holding a skull between steady hands. hrothbert stares at it, at the sigilia carved deep into the clean white bone, and cannot feel the ground beneath his feet. he draws a breath, and there is no air. he reaches for his will, for his magic, and finds a thrum and a space and is pushed gently aside. he cannot feel the cold of the cave, nor the dampness that he can see on the walls, and although his chest moves, there is nothing to fuel his scream.

"hrothbert of bainbridge," the blackstaff says, shifting the skull between long fingers, "be silent."

hrothbert's voice is cut away and his scream ends, leaving the cave ringing. he pants on the air he cannot breathe, and wills the blackstaff to burn. he brings up his arms, and there is a weight on his wrists; he looks down to see manacles, smooth and bright and damning.

"ghost," the blackstaff says, gentle and firm and the will of the words brushes against hrothbert, buzzes in the space he cannot feel except to say that he feels nothing, bounces against his mockery of flesh and whispers secrets he does not understand, buries them somewhere past his heart (it does not beat) and deeper inside. "this is your sentence. you are bound to your skull, and you will serve at the mercy of your masters. you will do as your masters bid, save that you will not enter the nevernever, nor draw power from it; you will not influence the mortal realm, nor draw power from it. you will retain and synthesise knowledge, and serve your masters with it well. you may not stray from the reach of your skull. you may not take possession of another. you may not lie. in saecula saeculorum."

the blackstaff holds out the skull; turns it so that hrothbert may see his curse winding around and into the bone. there is a jagged hole at the back where the axe hit him (he is drowning, he is cold, he feels a scream try to escape through his skin) and teeth are missing. he does not ask what has become of them; he cannot ask what has become of them.

the skull, his skull, thrums with power that he can sense. it tingles against what he knows are not his fingers, nothing but a simulacrum crafted by what little of the nevernever he may reach on the first plane of death between the mortal realm and that of ghosts, but he feels it nonetheless; can feel the power of the blackstaff, can feel the left-over remains of his curse floating on the air of the cave, where it was etched into the bone, and begins to shake.

"into your skull, ghost," the blackstaff says, and hrothbert knows it is a mercy.

   
   


**36 [105B]**

like the hyacinth in the mountains that shepherd men  
with their feet trample down and on the ground the purple  
flower

by the time the hood is removed, her hair is sticking to her face, plastered against her forehead and cheeks and neck, and she wobbles at the daylight that floods the main foyer. it's the morningway estate, and the breath leaves her lungs. they had brought her home.

there are fingers against her arms, tied behind her back, and she turns, teeth bared and will ready despite the sigil-laden bindings around her wrists and ankles, holding her magic at bay. "margaret, margaret," justin says, "hush. calm, now. it's all right. it's all right. they're gone; the wardens are gone." he is sweating, his hands are damp, and maggie watches drops roll down his wide, smooth forehead. there are dark stains on his suit beneath the arms. "it's all right," he says again, and the bindings fall from her wrists.

maggie swings her legs out before her to yank away the cloth at her ankles. she flashes a spell and her senses around the manor, is filled with the familiar wards, and her shoulders relax. they're alone. "justin," she says, "what _happened_?" she scrubs at her face, lifting away her sweaty hair, and peers up at him. "did they find you, too? did they hurt you? how did they find out? stars, how did they even know where i _was_?"

she paces, swinging her arms and wincing as feeling returns. the afternoon spills gold upon the floor and she strides through it, breaking it into shadows and sun-caught dust, and jerks her head to shake her hair away, dark in the light and highlights flashing penny-bright. she's always been able to read him, and it's the thump of his cane against the floor that stops her. she turns, knowing he can read her, too. "justin," she says, meets his eyes, their mother's eyes, and tries to remember the soul she'd seen as a child. "oh justin, what did you do?"

he raises his hands, pets the air, and maggie feels herself begin to shake; there is something hot and sharp uncurling in her belly. "you have to understand, margaret," justin says, "it was for the best, truly. now i am beyond reproach, and between ancient mai and my reputation, you will be back within the inner circle of the council in a few years. they would have fond out, maggie, we weren't ready; father's shadow was still on us, maggie, we both would have been suspect for the rest of our lives. be resonable," he says, and reaches for her arm as she forces herself to walk by. "you're perfectly fine. i wouldn't have let them _hurt_ you. maragaret, you know i love you."

"let me go, justin," she says, feels his fingers flex, and draws a breath. "you let them into my _home_, justin," she says. "betrayal, justin -- let me go. let _go_, justin."

"margaret!" he says, pulls her in, and she flings him across the room. she lets her magic comfort her, the crackle and spark of it like lightning on her skin, and hardens the air around her brother, holding him to the floor. "margaret, they will hunt you down. i said i would keep custody of you; it's why they let you live!"

she will take her notebooks. she will take their secrets. she will take her mother's locket, pictures, and keys. her pentacle is cold between her breasts. "don't follow me," she says.


End file.
